


Varintha

by Vivyana



Category: Original Work
Genre: Action/Adventure, Developing Relationship, F/M, Fantasy, Graphic Description, Multi, Original Character(s)
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-08-19
Updated: 2019-10-03
Packaged: 2020-09-07 15:29:05
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 5
Words: 14,540
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20311786
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Vivyana/pseuds/Vivyana
Summary: ON HIATUSIn a world where magic is common, so is corruption. There are those who seek power to help the world recover, and those who seek to destroy it.Aurelia Sethoran is a mage, accepted into society but scorned for her Nuzrethian heritage. She carries with her a past stricken with blood, magic and her own fears. Firmly bent on vengeance on her enemies - the enemies of the whole realm - she seeks out a dangerous path in riddles and bloodshed.But nothing is what it seems in a world where everything and everyone seems bent on revenge.





	1. Chapter 1

Dust kicked up in a massive cloud as Aurelia landed hard on her back. She barely had time to blink as a wooden sword came for her head. She dodged, rolling away, splinters flying as the weapon hit the stone floor. Lithely, she rose to avoid the next strike aimed at her side. Fighting at close combat was one thing, but having been devoid of a weapon was another. Luckily for her, today was only a practice fight. But that didn't mean being careful was not essential; Aurelia didn’t want to add yet another bruise to the ones she already received after her unlucky encounter with their enemies a few days past.

Valinor charged her, forcing her in tight spots time after time again. The duel grew horribly on her nerves. Being a mage meant keeping your distance at all times, yet her Commander had pressed her to practice melee as well, much to her discomfort. But today they'd forbade her to use magic and let her loose with her melee skills instead.

She ducked as he swung the sword, missing her copper-haired head by inches. She twisted, elbowing him in the ribs, hard enough to end the fight. The man coughed and stumbled, lost his grip on the sword as it clattered to the floor. _Victory, _she thought in triumph, only to be held in an iron grip seconds later and get thrown to the floor. 

Around her fresh recruits clashed with each other, their faces red and puffy from exertion, sweat dripping down from under the hot sun above the open roof of the Arena. Being a public place in the city, the amphitheater was filled to the brim with cheering and jeering spectators. 

“Never lose sight of an enemy in battle,” came the man’s voice, deep and almost rumbling. “Never go into close combat unprepared, or even thinking you’ve won,” 

She sighed, rolled over on her back to face him standing over her. His dark brown waves fell to his shoulders, filled with dust, and she reckoned she wouldn't fare any better after a full afternoon of sparring. 

“I know,”

“Yet you keep forgetting,” he said dryly, offering a hand to help her up. She brushed him away and sat up by herself instead, muscles aching already. “Can you stand?” 

“Valinor, I’m a soldier, not a helpless little girl who needs pampering at every scraped knee,” she said, resisting the urge to roll her eyes. While he was truly a supportive friend, had been one for years, he could be quite overprotective at times. She saw it in his eyes; every time she left for the battlefield, it hurt him and he’d argue with her, much to both sides’ annoyances. 

Her superiors had told her to take it easy on her days off, she instead took up training. And she wouldn’t stop until her skills had evolved enough to crush her enemies, the Machorians, who had lain so much waste and destruction. They had to pay for what they did to her, her family, her kingdom. The would pay.

She then crawled to her feet, shaking the thought away before horrible memories returned. "Still, I don't understand why they wouldn't bring out a training dummy, or at least another trainee to practice magic on," 

“You know damn well why. The Commander sent you home with a specific request to get some rest. Yet being the stubborn mule you are, you had to get out into a fight,” 

“You worry too much,” she shot back, making her way past him to a bench off the side. There she drank from a flagon, greedy as the water dripped down her chin before she wiped. “It’ll get you wrinkles sooner or later,”

He shrugged as she dropped down on the bench. 

“You’re improving,” he remarked as he took his place beside her.

“Not fast enough, in my Commander’s eyes,” she said. “He wants me to be a capable fighter with a sword but all I am good at is magic, and even that is unpredictable at times,” 

Everyone knew. Magic was unpredictable, having a will of its own and took a tremendous amount of study and training to control, let alone master. But when she used it she felt free. She once described it as liquid fire running through her veins, and when the golden-hued power finally flew from her fingertips all senses were heightened, the world coming in crystal-clear focus. 

“You can’t rush to shape a good fighter. I learned that the hard way, when I still was in training and wanted nothing more to jump right into the fray of battle,” Valinor said, wiping his hands off at his trousers. “Like you,” he added quietly. 

Before Aurelia could open her mouth to add another comment, a man walked through the Arena's entrance. Dressed in silks and leather with a silver sigil embroidered on his shoulders, one of a elegant lily, he immediately stood out between the sweaty combatants and recruits and commoners on the amphitheater. A messenger from Malvor. Next to her, Valinor sharply inhaled. 

“So my father has sent for me. Again,” he said, voice suddenly tired and loathing. 

Aurelia couldn’t help but feel a flicker of pity for him. Being the son of Malvor’s Duke meant having to go about duties he otherwise would’ve neglected, as she knew his heart lay in his work. Yet from what little he’d told her, his father ruled their small state with an iron fist. Including the decisions of his son. 

She watched him rise and meet the messenger as hasty words were exchanged, out of earshot. When he bode farewell to the man and turned back to her, his face stood grim. 

“Father has summoned me to discuss certain events for the sake of Malvor,” was all he said before walking over to pick up the fallen sword and placed it back at the weapon rack. Without another word he turned, following the messenger closely on foot as they exited the Arena. 

The sparring went on and she watched some of the recruits, wooden swords and shields in their hands as they fought and sweated beneath the sun, cheered on by spectators and friends. She couldn't help but smile.

A hand being clapped on her shoulder pulled her out of lingering thoughts. She turned to the side and found one of her allies with a grin on her face. 

“Commander gave word they released the enhanced training dummies and limitations on the barriers. We’re all clear to throw magic at each other,”

A grin crept on her face as Aurelia jumped to her feet, aches were forgotten as she summoned her magic from her body into her hands, sending it racing in gold pulses. The familiar feeling sent her almost in a giddy mood and she paced on lithe feet, waiting for the other woman to set up an enhanced yet harmless dummy.

“Let’s get to it, then.”

* * *

The sun had gone down by the time she finally left the Arena, painting the imposing city of Denurir in shades of gold. With its high spires and terraces, broad winding streets and houses and shops too many to count, there was always life bustling about. Commonly called the White City, their Kingdom stood proud and tall. And even though she knew it had lasted long enough through several wars, the events were only written in history books. Which she hadn’t really bother to read yet.

By the time she had reached her own home the last light had faded, quickly filling the sky in a dark, clear blanket. She turned the key in its lock, stepped inside, and closed the door. Her home wouldn’t be exactly called _luxurious, _for it featured nothing more than the bare necessities. In two steps she stood in the living room, which furbished nothing more than a table, two chairs and an immense hearth, long dead. There was also a small kitchen with countless cabinets, and another even smaller room which held both bath- and bedroom. 

Just enough for a person alone.

Stripping off her boots and cape she then proceeded to light a candle on the table with a flick of her wrist as sparks of energy flew off her fingers, igniting it. The warm glow spread gradually, dancing in the window and across the walls. Having no real desire to eat, as she had purchased her dinner from the market stalls earlier, she went straight for her bath chamber and lit more candles. Like most of the interior, the chamber was small, built of stone walls and a wooden floor with a stone tub, sink and sanitary. She filled the bath with warm water and prepared to strip off her grime-stained clothing. 

She quickly brushed her hair before dropping some scented bath oil in the water, washed the heaviest dirt from her face then climbed into tub.

Upon hitting the water her strained muscles finally relaxed, soothed by the warmth as she stretched her legs and put her head back on the edge, eyes closed. She sat for over half an hour, mind blank and empty before deciding to scrub the dirt and dust off her body and places she’d rather not had it in. The fresh wound on her left bicep from her encounter with an enemy last week stung. She carefully dabbed around it with a washcloth. It hadn’t been deep, yet still a nuisance.

_Another lovely scar,_ she thought begrudgingly. Being a soldier for a living meant getting injured, and those without scars hadn’t been fighting long enough. She didn’t despise them, no, but she’d rather keep her skin intact wherever she could. With a content sigh, she scrubbed her hair, left the tub after soaking a little longer and drained the water before drying herself with a rather large, fluffy towel. As she slipped into more comfortable woolen leggings and a blouse, a rapid-fire knock on her front door made her halt.

Nobody would go outside at this hour, especially not with the curfew set in the city when only the city guards would be on post and civilians in their homes. Wary of any potential danger she summoned a surge of magic to her fingertips. Then a shout came, followed by more pounding on her front door. 

“Private Sethoran! I bear news from the headquarters,” 

"One moment," she hollered and made haste to the front door, then unlocked it as fast she could. When she opened the door the man held a letter tightly clutched, his golden armor polished to a sheen and emblazoned with the phoenix sigil of their kingdom. He stared at her for a while before handing her the rolled-up parchment.

“You have been summoned back to the headquarters in Eastern Machoria,” was all he said when she accepted the letter. “Gods be with you,”

“And you too,” she acknowledged before closing the door with a faint hint of irritation. Walking back to the living room she unfolded the parchment and read briefly, before crumpling and setting it afire with a single spark of energy. She watched the burnt paper flutter to the floor with a scowl. 

“Damn it all," she muttered to no-one in particular. The letter had requested her immediate presence back at the headquarters, as one of their patrols hadn't returned from duty and the Commander would send another to investigate. He explicitly stated for her support in the matter, meaning her day off would be cut short. There was also a brief mention of a small but valuable hostile outpost further inwards, and from the intelligence their spies had gathered, the enemy was developing crude weaponry. 

Having grown irritated by the interruption of a to-be peaceful day off she walked over to one of the cabinets, grabbed a bottle and poured herself a glass of sweetened wine, then downed it in one go before pouring the next. It burned in her throat.

Glass still in her hand she moved to her bedroom and threw open a window, then sat down on the blankets and stared blankly out of the window to collect her thoughts. The city lights were dwindling as the last inns and bars died down for the night, 

She sat for what felt like an eternity, before finally concluding her mind had been thoroughly emptied. She blew out the candles, stripped to her undergarments, then slipped under the covers in a dreamless sleep. 

  
  
  
  
  



	2. Chapter 2

When the grand gates of House Malvor came into sight, Valinor exhaled in relief. The ride home had been a tiring, not to mention silent one. The messenger accompanying him hadn't said a word, so Valinor was left to his own thoughts while their horses trotted across the central roads through the forests. Now, however, those dense forests and canopies had made room to reveal a grand piece of land, secluded from the back by more trees and a grand mansion which stood in the middle. Lone pine trees dotted the surface here and there, the grass plain stretching as far the eye could see.

The road had led them to the central plaza where a marvelous fountain, filled with carved statues of lilies which spewed water in clattering streams. They circled it, then dismounted in front of the grand steps leading to the entrance. Almost immediately two stable boys ran about and the men let them take the reins of the horses before beginning the climb upstairs. As always, two guards clad in dark purple, black and gold stood by the great oaken doors, heavy crossbows strapped to their backs and sword at the hip. They didn't even glance as Valinor passed.

As soon he set foot inside, an air of luxury washed over him. Tapestries in purple lined the floors and stairs, chandeliers hung from the high arched ceilings. Where the tapestries lacked, the floor was a smooth marble polished to a sheen. Cream-coloured stone had been used throughout the whole building and golden details and carvings made up the bulk of decorations. His father surely had an expensive taste, almost so much it made him uncomfortable.

A servant walked up to him just as the messenger took his leave for another room.

"My Lord, your father has been expecting you. If I may take your coat?"

"Of course. You can tell Lord Erithar I’ll be joining him after I’ve taken some refreshments," Valinor said as he shed his coat and handed it to the woman. He then climbed the double staircase to the first floor, which held the private quarters, and found his room at the end of the hall. When he entered a servant offered to help him but he politely dismissed her. After years of being pampered and as he had refused as he grew older, he still had to tell them he didn’t need their help anymore now, much to their frustrations.

The lavishy white-carpeted floor drowned out the sound of his boots and the double windows leading to the balcony had been opened to let some of the rapidly cooling air inside. A massive four-poster bed with heavy cream curtains lay in the centre of the far wall. The golden carvings and decorations on the frames were polished well. A nightstand and coffee table with two chairs stood on either side of the bed, and in the corner was a great bookcase made of white oak. A lounging chair stood by the window, filled with cushions.

To his left was another door leading to the bathroom, ridiculously large. A tub half in the floor large enough for at least three persons to fit in comfortable, and held a more private shower hidden behind a wall extending halfway into the room as well. A porcelain sink and lavatory completed the bathroom, including a giant mirror. As always, the towels were neatly folded on a bench and rows of shampoos were stalled on the sink.

He sighed, ran a hand through his hair before stepping to the sink and made for refreshments. When done, he left the room, the heavy door closed behind him. Without another glance to the servant he strode on to the grand dining hall, passing more servants on the way. He walked for what felt eternity through a long corridor, the last sunlight casting all kinds of shadows on the floor through full-length windows. Large double doors came into sight and upon approach, a guard opened it to reveal the family’s grand dining room.

There were chairs by the hearth, and the long table in the middle of the room was absolutely loaded with all kinds of dishes. Pitchers of red grape wine were filled by servants hurrying along, platters full of cooked vegetables and at least three different sorts of greens were brought to the table. A massive boar sat in the middle of it all, surrounded by lemons, parsley and cooked potatoes. Valinor assumed the hunters had killed it earlier this afternoon. He took a seat across from his father, who had just begun on his wine. As always, his mother was absent; her illness made it hard for her to attend even the simplest things such as dinner. 

“Ah, just in time for dinner,” the man across from him began. Valinor studied him as he talked; while Erithar had a kind face, his eyes deceived him, ice-cold and hard as they stared into his own. In many ways they looked alike; the same dark brown hair, albeit Valinor’s own was longer and fell in thick waves across his shoulders. The same strong jaw. The same, striking icy-blue eyes. And when he laughed he swore he could see his father in him. His father rarely laughed.

“Tell me, how fares your work? Any casualties lately?”

The question stunned him. His father never asked about his work because he held a certain disgust with being a Mender. And surely not at the dinner table. Valinor only shook his head as servants presented him a plate of boar and vegetables, along with steamed potatoes and a glass of wine. He thanked them quietly before picking up his cutlery. Gold-plated, like most metalwork in the mansion.

“It’s been unusually quiet as of late,” he began, “but it’s nice having a bit of a breather after the recent skirmish near Denurir’s borders. That brought many unfortunate victims to us again,”

“It seems the Machorians recently recruited some of the savages known as Orcs in their ranks,” his father said, ignoring the words about death. “Which, given their history with a wish to rule as the supreme race over Varintha, seems rather unusual even for them.”

Now Valinor cut off his father. “There have been reports from the Militia and talk through the streets of intilligence recently gathered. There is proof of smaller organisations working together under one leader, who in turn report back to their General. Under direct leadership, there has been discussions of constructions of siege weapons, infrastructure and weaponry,”

“And where have you heard this? Surely, you left the Imperial Army years ago, and unless you have an insider supplying you with information…”

Valinor’s plate was almost empty and he took another sip of wine, before choosing his next words carefully. “I have a good friend who is a soldier in the Elite Militia. Surely you’ve heard of her before; Aurelia Sethoran. A spellweaver who-“

“-Is a Nuzrethian.”

The room fell dead silent, the gold-plated cutlery hovering above his meat. Valinor blinked once, twice, then decided not to answer the words which were poison from his father’s lips. He knew like no other the hatred the man held for the race, although Valinor thought it was unjust to discriminate one sole race on its own, for crimes long forgotten. And while his father never simply gave him a clear reason of his hatred, every single time the topic was brought up, he felt a seething hatred radiating from the older man.

“And it’s widely known those of the race are considered savages by their own kin,” Erithar continued, prodding horribly at the fury reigning within his son. “But enough of that. It was not the reason I summoned you here, to talk about them. I have recently submitted a letter of request towards Therondya to ask one of the noble families for the hand of their daughter. A fine young woman, who would be a perfect fit for someone like you,”

The words came like a slap to the face and Valinor clenched his jaw. With tremendous effort he replied, if only out of politeness. “As far I remember, it was you as well who arranged my first marriage to Adellya, without any direct opinion from me. _Again_. What makes you think to have the audacity to treat me this way every time I return home? To decide my future?”

“Forming an alliance with House Nestiros proved to bear its fruit soon enough. Traffic on trade routes significantly increased and our merchant vessels were allowed to harbor in Therondya since long. Not to mention it-“

“The marriage was arranged and we were wed within a month of our first meeting. We had it consummated just to meet the rules of the contract set by House Nestiros, who also expected an heir nonetheless,” Valinor continued, completely ignoring the man.

“Which never happened. Yes, there was a certain love I had for the woman, but it was purely political on end. A game, and you pulled the strings. You shunned me, your own son and heir, when I told you I would join the Imperial Army of Denurir. Any decisions I took were looked down upon,” he paused briefly to meet his father’s eyes directly across the table.

“You left without a word!” the older man snapped, lowering his fork, brows knitting together as his jaw set. “As soon you got the chance to run off, you did with Adellya. You disappeared for three years until word came you settled in Denurir City, and had joined the Imperial Army. Being my heir – and the only one for that matter – you were unreasonable to even join. You could have fallen in battle! And when a letter finally did come back, it told me you had sailed for Narkotha of all places,” the words were poison.

Valinor breathed in, breathed out, tried to calm himself before things escalated and brought out the fury he’d stored away so long. But the longer he stared at the man, cold eyes boring into his own without a flicker of compassion, he knew it wouldn’t take much longer to break. He slowly put his empty cup down.

“You know how much those events hurt me, that I needed time to heal, and yet you didn’t care. All you wanted for your son was to come home, and take another wife to cement yet another alliance between noble houses. Just like before.”

“I am only doing what is good for the Kingdom of Denurir,” his father countered, now practically yelling at him with thunderous vigor, and Valinor found he almost looked like a bristling bull, his face red and a vein throbbing in his neck.

“You only care about the funds you get out of this, and your seat in the Council. Tell that noblewoman of yours she can return immediately to from where she came,” he growled, ignoring further objections by his father.

“I will not speak of this matter again until you realise why I don’t visit more often,”

He rose and turned, leaving the dining hall in complete silence before the door slammed behind him. The voice calling for him in anger was drowned out by his own heartbeat thundering in his ears.

The walk through the corridors was silent. The sun had long been replaced by the pale light of the moon shining through the windows, teinting everything silvery and pale despite the torches on the walls. He went to retrieve his coat from a servant, who’d stored it away in a closet room near the entrance, then headed outside to the gardens behind the manor. The gardens helped clear his mind.

As he walked, his thoughts drifted to the event years past, to the time he still stood in armor and held a sword, facing their enemies time after time again. He vividly remembered the briefing their superiors had given; liberate a sacked city in Northern Ardir. It should have gone according to plan, all mapped out and carefully structured like every other mission.

Instead, it had turned into one of the darkest times in his life.

Adellya had been there with him, fighting as a spellweaver in their ranks among others. When the assault had taken a turn for the better and their commanders announced they found the leader behind the assaults, the bulk of their forces moved on the central point. To their surprise the Machorian General had surrendered, only for it to be a ruse and attack them from the sides and back, nearly annihilliating them in the process.

Adellya had lost her life that day at the hands of Machorians, and his world became shattered and broken. While he never cared to admit the true feelings he had for her towards his father, as he wouldn’t care, an empty void was left behind when she was so horrifically taken from him. Even after five years, it still hurt him dearly.

He approached a secluded corner in the gardens, well-hidden behind bushes full of roses, although most of them were dead. Withered away by the sun. To his surprise, the bench was already occupied.

“I thought you would come here tonight,” Elania said, her voice warm and gentle. Dressed in a plain gray dress and a blanket draped across her legs, his mother stared at him with tired eyes, tiny wrinkles visible at the corners. Her black hair fell in curls across her back, the light of the moon faintly illuminated the grey hairs here and there. Valinor couldn’t remember the last time she even were outside. Usually she’d stay holed up inside in her bedroom per the servant’s requests, but he knew her well enough to know she’d just brush them aside.

“It was a mess once again, Mother,” Valinor replied quietly, moving beside her on the bench. He had grown taller than her during his youth, and now towered at least a head and a half above her. “To think he has the audacity to order me around like I am some… some kind of slave…”

“Your father means well,” she replied calmly, but he caught the hint of sadness in her voice. “He just… doesn’t know how to bring it best,”

At that Valinor scoffed, ran a hand through his hair and leaned back on the bench, facing the sky overhead. Clouds had began to pack together. “He doesn’t know how to handle a son who lost his wife, who left to grieve and then returned as a Mender instead of a businessman. In his eyes, all I am is a pawn in his political game for power,”

His mother placed a skinny hand on his leg. He stared down quietly, observed the almost translucent skin and fingers which were too bony for a woman of her stature. She meant well, but even she couldn’t take away the hurt in him.

“After all those years, you’re still not able to let her go?” she asked, gently. He shook his head with a sigh.

“No matter how hard I try, she’s ghosting around in my head. The nights are the worst, when I’m alone in the dark. I keep seeing how she’s being taken from me, with a knife through her throat and another in her back, bleeding out on the floor…” He laughed reufully. “After five years, you’d think I’d get over it, like my father suggested,”

“Grieving takes time. When I lost your younger sister as stillbirth, it took me a few good years to even attempt another child. It hurt too much to try too soon again. Most people won’t see the hurt it gave those who lost someone dear to them, they think it’s just a ruse to be pitied. In reality… that sadness can be crushing. I saw it when you first returned after completing your training as a Mender. I can still see it, my boy,” her hand reached to touch his cheek gingerly. Valinor noticed her trembling despite the lingering warmth of the evening.

“But you have to let go. It’s been five years now, and all this time you faced it alone. If I were you, I would seek out a Priest of the Citadel to help you with your nightmares. Or even a partner, one you can rely on and you trust,”

“If you’re getting at starting another relationship-“

“That’s not what I meant,” his mother laughed and retracted her hand from his face, “Surely you have a friend or two who cares about you. What about that woman, the one you frequently see? Aurelia?”

“Father would kill her on the spot if she were to come here,” Valinor said flatly. Then he turned to the woman, “We should head inside before Father decides to deploy half the house’s servants to find you,”

At that his mother laughed softly, and let him help her up.

“If he hasn’t scared the first half of them away with his outbursts, that is,”


	3. Chapter 3

Her sleep hadn’t been so dreamless after all, for Aurelia awoke with the sun the next morning, plagued by a horrible nightmare. It was always the same, never changing, always running and fighting and screaming from things unseen until she woke up in cold sweat. She once again blamed the enemy, for what they had done to her those years back. They’d taken everything.

The streets were silent still, with only the first birds awakening in the trees. Most of the common folk wouldn’t be awake until the grand clocktower of the Citadel struck eight. She stretched, then left her bed and dressed; on duty meant wearing her standard-issue uniform, but as she left it back at the headquarters of Denurir’s Pride, settled on something more practical first.

Once dressed, washed and belongings gathered in a small pack she headed out into the streets. An early baker threw open his shop just as she passed through the maze of streets and hopped inside, paid for freshly-baked wheat bread, then moved on to gather some sweet juice from a small market stall opening the business for the day.

The capital city was enormous, to say the least, and passing travelers and traders often became lost without a guide, but she knew these streets well enough. She had walked for barely ten minutes before the grand towers of the Academy of Magic came in sight, their ever-burning golden flames burning brightly on the highest roofs.

She passed the gate guarded by two rather sleep-deprived men, one stifling a yawn as she passed by and raised her hand in greeting. Instead of entering through the double gates once she’d crossed the bridge, she took a sharp turn to her right. She entered one of the stand-alone towers, where several swirling portals had been opened permanently.

With a final glance around the room, she strode over to her destination portal, the faint burnt and barren landscape of the Eastern continent visible behind the shimmering wall of magic, and stepped through. 

Aurelia rematerialized in barely the blink of an eye in the sweltering heat of that what was called Eastern Machoria. Denurir's Pride, a joint base of operations built specifically for capturing relics, outpost and gather enemy intelligence, had been set up long since and stood as a small village on its own.

Perched in between sandstone mountain ranges, the only thing visible from a distance was the great gate and part of the wall, proudly decorated with banners sporting the Denurian sigil. As always the portal had sent her to the most northern corner, where several spellweavers worked on incantations in a tent guarded by magical wards. 

She followed the stone paths out of the tent to the barracks. Like almost every other building, this one was made out of a light, almost white stone and dark oak and three levels high with dark roof tiles, housing most of the Militia's men and women. While the lower level held a grand dining hall, the upper levels were reserved as private sleeping chambers and bath chambers. As she passed numerous other soldiers, recruits and veterans, along with several workers of all skill sets, some of them greeted her with a smile, while others gave her a puzzled look. 

Not being human had its disadvantages. 

At this hour, most of the inhabitants were up already and she passed the hall full of people eating their first meals, some a lot sleepier than others. Without a word, she took two flights of stairs to her room, changed in her standard-issue battle robes, then left the barracks again. In the note, their Commander, Cedric Gale, specifically requested her presence at today’s mission discussion and reports.

It didn’t take long for her to reach the main building in the middle-back of the grounds; a grand, towering building made of stone and wood, with a grand set of steps leading up to it, proudly sporting banners once again. Two guards stood by the door, heavy crossbows strapped to their backs. 

Upon entering, the war table in the middle of the room had been covered with a map, drawn on with pencils and marked with pins indicating either captured or lost outposts of trade routes. Along with enemy movement and recent assault, it was safe to say the map had been filled to the brim. Several other people stood inside, their faces grim. Aurelia recognized little of them. 

“Private Sethoran, thank you for joining us today. Apologies for having to hasten your time back in Denurir,” a voice came, cold and heavy. 

She saluted crisply. “Sir,” she said, then moved to the war table to stand beside others gathered for the mission, a small band of five men and women. “I understand. Apologies accepted,” 

“Good. Now that you all have gathered here, we shall begin. Lieutenant, if you might,” their Commander began, nodding to a dark-skinned woman to his side.

"As of recently, our spies have reported multiple sightings of the enemy close to our trade routes. While we were able to hold the outpost south of the continent, those north have been lost in assaults from the Machorians. Which brings me to my next point," she began, pointing to a distinct red marker on the large map. "We've lost one of our outposts, the Sigil, to an unexpected enemy assault with advanced technology.” 

Aurelia sharply inhaled, clenched her fist at the words. 

"Spies have gathered their intelligence after a brief battle and retreat, and it seems those stationed there report directly to their leader. If we can annihilate their leader, we won’t win this war, but at least deliver a blow to the Machorian’s communications,”

"What I want you to do for this mission, is to take the patrol route from Denurir's Pride gates, through the pass and then towards the fallen outpost. While we might not be able to retake it immediately, we will let our presence known and take out as many we can," the Commander continued, eyeing all six persons present. Aurelia saw he lingered a little too long on her and gave him a hard stare. He ignored her, his dark brows furrowing slightly.

“I also want full reports of the events that happened there. You are all to report back immediately after the outcome. You are to be deployed in one hour. Dismissed," he concluded, and with light murmuring, the soldiers turned away as Cedric turned back over his map. 

“Private Sethoran, a word,” he said, waving away his Lieutenant and guards in the room. Her stomach clenched. After having her free days taken from her and immediately thrown into the fray of a dangerous mission, what else could he possibly want from her? The room fell silent as the last footsteps left and the door closed. His dark eyes flicked up to her.

“I didn’t send you back home without reason. As you are well aware, your last mission was an utter failure, with half our troops wounded,”

“With all due respect, Sir,” she quietly interrupted, but inside she seethed. She wouldn’t take the full blame of something not directly her fault. “If our enemy hadn’t brought our their technology we could have won that skirmish. Nobody, our veterans or even me, would expect them to bring a siege weapon in the middle of the fight,”

“That was an unfortunate event at times given, but that still doesn’t lead away from the fact you rallied a complete group of spellweavers to take it down without having the direct order to do so. No matter how heroic that deed might have been and it brought us victory, you played with the lives of good soldiers as much as your own. I understand your vendettas against the enemy more than anyone," he paused to watch her. 

Aurelia's left eye twitched slightly at the mention and her jaw set. They had read her report, of course, so they knew about her history and her reasons. Still, it irked her whenever someone made so much as a mention of the events.

“But if you keep bringing missions in danger, it’ll end up with us being overrun or worse. We don’t even know if we have their leader in our vicinity, the one you despise.”

Aurelia wanted to remark, but shut up at his face. The last thing she needed was an already highly-irritated Commander making her run laps around the outpost as punishment. He sighed heavily, ran a hand across his face. 

"But I already lectured you on that. Point is, we can't lose you. Especially not when troops are in high demand now, also taking into account you're one of the more… specialized spellweavers, so to say. Not to mention a Nuzrethian.” 

She flinched at the mention of her race. "What do my race and heritage have to do with this mission, Sir?"

“Forget I said anything,” he quickly remarked, turning back to his map. “Dismissed. You have one hour to prepare,”

"…Sir." was all she said, crisply saluted him and turned on her heels. The door slammed behind her as she left the building into the rising heat of the day. 

As ordered, Aurelia lay flat on her belly an hour later in the desert sands of Eastern Machoria. The sandstone mesas made for ideal hiding places, and she and the other five soldiers had strategically hidden behind, atop or beneath them as best they could. A sloping dune stretched in front of them and she and another man lay flat on it, barely peeking across the sands to the road down below. Just for safety, they had cast an invisibility barrier around them.

This was one of the roads frequently used by the Machorian troops, and as spies had reported, today a messenger carrying vital information would be taking this road. If they were to bring the fight directly to the largest outpost of their enemy, Lieutenant Methedon, they would need to gather enough intelligence first to lead a successful raid. Her magic stirred.

"I sense something," she whispered to the man by her side. He, too, had sensed it, and she noticed the faint hint of magic on his hands already. Another mage had set upwards in a mile perimeter, invisible to the untrained eye or those who didn't wield magic, yet now they alerted the whole party. On the mesa, another soldier whistled a certain birdsong, quietly alerting the others.

Aurelia's focus shifted back to the road as the first signs of their enemy came into sight. Entering from their left, at least ten Machorians moved in a swift pace. At first glance, they seemed harmless elf-like people but looks betrayed often. Standing at least six feet at average with a sickly grey skin roped with muscle, both genders were impressive and intimidating even from this distance. Blood-red markings snaked all across their bodies, indicating their ranks in their militaries; fewer markings meant fewer victories, and given none of them had few, Aurelia knew they were well-known in the ways of fighting.

What they lacked in armor was countered by their brutal strength; intelligence had also proven to bear its fruits, as they were aware Machorians took pride in their victories and displayed the markings on their bodies. More armor meant fewer victories, a great shame in their society, and thus only footmen or grunts would wear it, provided they stayed at the back of the fights.

During her meager two years of service they had clashed countless times, be it skirmishes or trying to control an outpost. And every time she found herself unable to keep up unless another ally stepped in to help. It frustrated her greatly to the point she would continuously try to prove herself worthy. More often than not, that failed.

She inhaled sharply, waited for the signal as the troops passed them without being unaware of the incoming assault. Her pulse skyrocketed. She shifted again, raising her upper body slightly, drummed her fingers on the dune. Her eyes darted to the backs of the troops, who had now passed their hiding places. They were outnumbered, but with the right tactics, they could-

Then the signal came.

As one, the small raiding party dropped their cover and leaped down, rushing to the backs of their enemies with a savage war cry. Aurelia fired her first blast of magic. The first Machorian to move against her hit the floor before he could draw his sword. In seconds the air was thick with magical projectiles, the clash of steel on steel assaulting her from all sides, along with the screams and roars of the soldiers.

_Keep your distance, _a small voice in the back reminded her. _Not today_, she bit back to the voice and summoned another wave of magic. She practically danced out of the way for a sword coming for her head, then leaped back a distance like one of her allies caught the sword with his. The ringing echoed in her mind.

A glance across the field was enough to see their situation; four of the enemies had fallen and one of their own was heavily wounded, grasping to his leg while avoiding an ax. She intended for the fight to end quickly, lest they attracted more enemies with the noise. A sharp pain flashed across her legs a second later, and then another. And another. With a grunt she turned and saw a vicious woman snarling at her, sharp blades at the ready, dripping with blood. _Her_ blood.

Aurelia had seen them up close, yet every single time they frightened her in a way. Their eyes were a shining gold, save from the pitch-black sclera's. Long ears curled away from their heads, some decorated with silver jewelry. Her armor gleamed under the sun, like fresh oil welling up out of the ground, polished to a perfect sheen. Still, there was very little on her, the rest being loosely covered with leathers or chainmail. Single markings around her eyes indicated someone with a little victory.

And Aurelia intended to keep it that way.

She ignored the pain in her legs and charged, firing blast after blast of magic. The assassin dodged swiftly, lithely moving around her. Quick like a viper, she struck, but Aurelia was faster. Right when the blade came at her, she ducked so the woman overextended. Her fingers gripped tight around the Machorian's throat as she rose again, and channeled power through it, the magic burning hot as the throat became encased in a yellow-gold color.

While the assassin was a great deal taller, Aurelia didn’t struggle against the grip on her arm or the weight trying to push her down. All she saw was the fear in her enemies’ eyes, darting from left to right and scribbling at her face with clawed fingers. She increased power, and soon the assassin was screaming as her magic burned her flesh, the charred smell filling her nose. Then the body went limp, the eyes frozen in shock and Aurelia threw it to the ground with an unceremonious _thud_.

The battle came to a close around her as she turned around. Two enemies were left, and she suspected one of them was the messenger carrying vital information, judging by the satchel on his hip. A very unfortunate soldier on her side jumped out of the way too late and took the full force of an ax in his abdomen. He didn't even have time to scream.

As he fell, something inside Aurelia snapped. It had happened before, the same events, and now she saw it repeating before her eyes. Seeing red, she charged, summoning as much magic she was able through her veins. With a savage cry she fired, ignoring the shouts for her name. The first blast took the Machorian by surprise. He stumbled, dodged the next, then rolled out of the way as she leaped to him.

In his fall he grabbed a sword from a fallen soldier. But it didn’t matter; he was just a red spot in her eyes, a target meant to be eliminated. When he rose to his feet, she sent a blast through his shoulder, straight through the flesh and muscle. With a painful cry he struggled and she had him where she wanted.

Summoning a final massive spike of magic, she launched it at him with a grin tugging at her lips. It flew, then pierced straight through his chest. Blood splattered as he stumbled and grasped at the magic, which quickly dissolved, leaving a gaping hole. With a final terrified glance at her, he fell, twitched a few times, then lay still as his heart stopped beating.

_Messenger, _she thought, her blood afire and magic racing through her veins. It was electrifying, pulsed through her, begged for release. She wouldn’t give in, and instead turned… only to see the messenger dead on the ground, a dagger through the neck. She breathed hard and heavy, hands trembling as she let her gaze across the corpse. The soldier who stood by it just stared at her, and Aurelia realized they weren't afraid of the enemy anymore; they were afraid of _her. _

"Private Sethoran?" someone called, uncertainty in the voice. The red gaze slowly lifted and her heartbeat slowed once again to a normal pace. She blinked once, twice, before regaining her senses fully.

“I’m fine,” she snapped, perhaps a bit too harsh, but she didn’t care. Her mission here was done. “We have what we came for, don’t we?”

One of the soldiers left alive rifled through the satchel, pulling out several folded missives and something on a leather cord. He tucked them neatly away in a hidden pocket in his leather armor before Aurelia had a chance to look at it.

"You in control?" the same voice behind her asked and a hand was clamped on her shoulder. She nodded weakly. The sudden over-use of magic had drained her whole, and it was harder to focus.

“I’m fine,” she repeated, brushing the plated hand away. “We should report to Commander Gale,”

Without another word, she waited for the mages to summon a portal back and prepared herself for the backlash at the mission results. While they had succeeded, it had come at a cost of three lives, not to mention her loss of control and recklessness once again. She watched the air split open when the portal was conjured and stepped through.


	4. Chapter 4

It was late in the afternoon when the Commander called them into the war room for a debriefing. Although her wounds had been cleaned, healed and bandaged, they still stung atrociously as Aurelia climbed the stairs and swept inside the room. As always, his first Lieutenant stood by his side as Cedric Gale furiously read through the scattered missives on the war table. Frustration was written on his face, and from the nervous glances of her surviving allies, Aurelia knew now wasn't the best time to speak. With a heavy sigh, he threw the last missive down and ran a hand through his short, dark hair, before turning to the gathered.

“Are there any of you fluent in Machorian? Or at least able to read some?”

While Aurelia had the basic knowledge of the harsh language, it wasn’t enough to decipher missives at all. That didn’t mean she couldn’t try, however, and spoke as others stayed silent.

“Sir, I have basic knowledge of their language, as I’ve studied it while at the Academy of Magic, years back as a subject,”

Cedric motioned to the letters and she picked one up, the parchment crumpled with red ink hastily scribbled across the material. She concentrated, silently muttering to herself as her eyes scanned word after word. It vaguely detailed the current troops and trade supplies between outposts, only giving estimates much to her frustration. While citing her readings to the Commander she picked up the next missive, and the next.

Until a name scribbled at the last one made her breath hitch. Everyone in the room had felt it; a darker fury surged as her fingers dug in the parchment, her bright eyes flashing with rage. She knew that name.

“Private Sethoran, if you’d mind sharing what you just read…” Cedric started, impatiently folding his arms over his large chest as she flicked her eyes up to him. “Judging by your reaction-“

“The troops stationed at the outpost nearby our assault today are to report directly to Lieutenant Methedon,” she said while trying to keep her voice from trembling. It failed. She threw the missive back down carelessly, now seething with white-hot rage. Her fingers dug in the palm of her right hand, so hard they drew blood.

“Missives indicate the location of his stronghold, but judging by the sheer amount of troops he has at his disposal, we will be unable to take control of it,” she continued bitterly. All this time, their Commander didn’t look away from her eyes. He knew what that person meant to her. What he had done to her, and countless others.

"While our arsenal is sufficient enough to launch an attack, it would be too risky," the Commander said, finally taking his eyes off hers. "We could ask the King directly for more battalions, but judging by the recent losses we took in the war against the Machorians, not to mention how thinly-spread troops are across different outposts… I doubt he'll send us new battalions before next year,"

“Next year is too late,” Aurelia muttered more to herself than anyone in the room, but it didn’t go unnoticed.

“Private Sethoran,” Cedric said firmly, “If we launch an attack this month, or even the month thereafter… Hell, if we even _try _to take that outpost now, we risk our full force stationed at this garrison. I understand you want to bring him to justice more than anyone, I do. But sacrificing our soldier's lives just so you could have a try at bringing him down to sate your bloodlust is not worth it.” He paused, watched the woman regain her calm before delivering the next blow.

"As you are well aware, your allies reported back while you were in the healing ward. Given your current mental situation against the enemy, I've decided to remove you from this mission for the time being."

“You wouldn’t dare…” she hissed, discarding any formality she had left at that moment. Anger radiated off her as her face flushed red, the tips of her long, pointed ears turning the same crimson shade. Cedric didn’t fail to notice a faint flicker of magic racing up her wrists from her fingers.

“I do,” he replied with utter calmness, much to Aurelia’s annoyance. How could he be so calm about this whole situation? The Lieutenant had gathered the missives off the war table in the meantime, silently tucking them away. She’d rather reduce them to ashes, never wanted to see that name again.

“And that is an order. Would you disobey one from your direct superior?" he threatened, his voice low as his eyes pierced hers. Aurelia swallowed thickly, struggling to keep the fury rising. The temptation to unleash her magic and wipe the look off his face was too great. She recovered, however, and simply stepped back next to the other attendees.

“That’s settled, then. Are the bodies of the fallen soldiers recovered?” 

A collective nod passed through the crowd. Aurelia hadn't witnessed it herself, but when the covered bodies of the two fallen soldiers were brought through the portal by the last men, she knew the job was done.

“Yes Sir, they have also been prepared and imbued with magic to preserve them, for when they are ready to be sent back to their families.”

Cedric nodded silently.

“See to it they’re readied for transport, then. I will send for you when you are needed again. Dismissed.”

Still reeling from her conversation with the Commander, Aurelia sped down the stairs and out past the great gate, brushing past recruits and workers alike. Behind the garrison, a large training field had been set up on the rocky and dust-covered ground. It was primitive but served its cause well enough. Training dummies were stationed all over and there were groups of trainees, recruits and veterans all sparring or practicing. The rhythmic _twack_ and grunts of men and women carried across the open space, intercepted by an occasional cry of pain. 

She paid them no mind and searched for a lone training dummy near the end of the field. Her blood still boiled, it burned and stirred like an unquenched rage. And if she didn't let it out…

She found one, made sure nobody came close to her vicinity as she sent the first surge of golden magic across her hands and lower arms, and dropped in a stance. To her, spellcasting was like dancing. She controlled her magic with fluid motions, using her body as a whole to put enough power behind the blasts, along with taut, quick movements of her arms to send it forwards. Lithely on her feet she stepped forwards, sending a first quick blast of magic. It landed with a satisfying crackle, golden sparks flying off the wooden dummy.

Now the energy pulsed from her chest through her nerve system, tingling under her skin like it always did. It wasn’t visible unless she cast a spell, but it was _there. _She quickly fell into a rhythm, fast-paced as she danced around the training dummy, never losing focus. _Don’t let it control you, _she reminded herself as the feeling began to burn through her like fire, _Control it yourself._

Her sole focus was the training dummy, taking beating after beating. They were enhanced by the alchemists back in Denurir so they could withstand a thorough battering. Yet something prickled at the back of her neck. Wary of her surroundings she turned just in time to dodge another gold blast fired at her, and watched as it crashed into the dummy.

"Is he dead yet?" bellowed a voice belonging to a rather tall Nuzrethian. Like her, he wore the standard-issue battlerobes, his distinct eyes immediately standing out. Bright yellow with an orange outer ring, and a darker orange pupil. A grin tugged at her lips as she recognized him.

Two years her senior, Ellisar walked up with a slight bounce in his steps. While he had his moments, Aurelia considered him a friend between all the strange faces she wouldn’t remember. Like her, his arms crackled with magic too, and for a moment she paused to catch her breath.

"Not as dead as I'd like those Machorians to be," she panted bitterly, the sting of her earlier conversation still raging through. He cocked his head to the side, a suddenly worried expression on his normally calm face. She waved him off after a deep breath.

“You’re wounded and you just came back from a fight, are you sure-“

In response to his words, she turned and hurled another magic bolt at the dummy with a snarl. "Don't tell me what to do," she growled, exhaling hard. The hand clapped on her shoulder was shrugged away roughly. “I don’t want to rest. I want to fight,”

“Fight who? Aurelia, I know what fighting means to you, but you’re taking this too far. On your days off, you trained. You fought in an assault three hours past, however minor it was, and now you’re fighting _again.” _

“Then call it an improvement on stamina, if you will,” she replied bluntly, clearly not giving up on her argument. “Magic is energy, be it the stuff we use – pure magical energy – or the elemental mages, with their fire and ice and all that. And that has to come from somewhere. If your body isn’t strong, you can’t fight. If you can’t fight, you die. Simple as that,”

A hand on her wrist prevented her from firing another blast. She struggled in his iron grip, but he wouldn't let go. She snarled viciously, like a wild animal trying to break free from a trap, and at that moment realized she wasn't much different.

“Enough,” he said firmly as he pulled her back. Aurelia wasn’t going to until he wrenched her arm behind her back, holding onto her with all his might as she kicked at his shins. It might have been childish, a grown woman struggling to break free all the while throwing a rout, but she didn’t care. She channeled magic through her hands again… only to find it dissipate the second it left her fingers. Sheer panic surged through her as she tried again, and this time couldn’t even _cast. _

“What did you _do?!” _she growled as he held on. Her magic meant her life, and having it taken away from her was one of her biggest fears, rendered useless without it, empty.

“A simple containment spell. It’ll wear off with time. Until then, I suggest you take it easy," he replied, seemingly unbothered by her struggling. His grip increased on her arm. "I want to talk to you. You can't go on like this,"

Part of Aurelia wanted to fight him, and everyone around him, and all the superiors, unleash her frustration on all of them. Another part of her, the more reasonable side, reminded her that she simply couldn't win this fight. With a frustrated sigh she gave up and relaxed. Immediately his arm left hers and she watched him walk over to a small patch of shaded ground, provided by a rock outcrop. She trudged over and promptly sat down, leaning against the rock. From here, they had a clear view of all the fighting going on.

"That hurt, you know," he said, rubbing painfully over his shins. "I didn't know you could kick that hard,"

At that Aurelia scoffed, in an even worse mood than before. She knew what kind of conversation was coming, and also the fact she’d never be able to escape it.

“I heard you got taken off the mission to capture the outpost,” he began. Dumbfounded, Aurelia turned to him.

“That was barely an hour ago. How did that reach outside so fast?”

“News travels fast when you can hear two people yelling from inside a war room. Especially when said person leaves in a hurry right after,” he told her. Several veterans had picked up steel swords, and the familiar distant clash rang across the field and into their ears.

“Why are you so bent on vengeance, anyway?”

“You know why,” she huffed, clearly offended by the question. She hadn’t spoken openly about it, never really considered it. Not even around Valinor.

“I only know the vague descriptions you gave me, and your hatred towards that one race. You’re brooding and angry, recklessly throwing yourself in fights day after day without knowing you’ll return. I think it’s time you get your problems off your chest,”

Aurelia bit her lip thoughtfully. “Where do you want me to start?”

“Let’s start from the beginning, shall we?”

“Do you want the whole Nuzrethian history or just mine?” she said, the slightest hint of sarcasm in her tone. He gently pushed her, yet hard enough to send her stumbling a bit from her position.

“Just your family will do, if we intend to discuss the whole Nuzrethian history we’ll be here for another week,” he said dryly as she recovered.

‘’I grew up in Zharis, far in the North of Nuzrethar. My mother worked as a tailor in the capital city while my father was a soldier. I-" she paused, visibly stricken by the trying to remember the people that had been her parents. She didn't think it'd hurt this much to speak about them after all those years.

“I lived a generally good life, had a nice childhood, plenty of friends. Our income was steady, but Mother would always feed the scraps to those who had it worse than us. She was a good woman, always smiling, positivity radiating off her. We didn’t look alike, you know,” she paused, thinking back at the appearance of the woman.

“While she had sleek, black hair, I inherited my father’s auburn color. My mother taught me court rules, should I ever need them, such as etiquette and stance. But my father saw something different," she smiled, to nobody in particular as her eyes went to the sky. As if she could find answers there.

“Whenever he was off-duty, he would teach me to use a sword and the unarmed combat basics. Just in case you ever need to defend yourself, was his advice. I wouldn't say I'm fluent in either," she frowned.

Ellisar promptly urged her on, “Because you took on magic?”

She nodded.

"It wasn't until I had to defend myself around… I believe I was ten. Or eleven. We were going through the woods when a stray rabid wolf attacked. In panic and without a weapon I screamed at it while my father tried to fight it off. Then out of nothing, I fired magic from my hands when it overpowered him and came straight for me. The wolf was left with a gaping hole burned through its body.”

“By channeling your fear into your body, you opened up a way for magic to start flowing through your nervous system,” he quietly observed. Aurelia nodded again.

“Turns out my magic is strongest when emotions are high. A year later, my parents decided to move to the capital city. That was when the Machorians struck the country,” she replied bitterly. Her eyes savagely darkened at the mention of the events.

“They came for an unprepared village with farmers, people who didn't know how to fight, the elderly. We were warned in time and rode for the capital after gathering what money and assets we could, but others were not fortunate enough. I remember the burning of the village behind me as they ravaged it, plundering and murdering hundreds of innocents. We rode for two full days, joining survivors along the way. When we finally reached the capital, we thought we’d be safe,”

“Reality was different,” Ellisar supplied, all too well remembering the grim fate of his race.

"We weren't safe there either, as Machorian's target was the capital next. So after just two days of recovery, we were urged to the shores of Nuzrethar, crossed the Bay of Kings and landed in Denurir. I was too young to understand it, to grasp the reality of it. My parents bought a small house with whatever money they had left and tried to rebuild."

She paused, swallowing hard at the memories. She’d rather not think about the darker periods, but something inside urged her to keep talking, to get it all out at once.

"Most of the Nuzrethian population was annihilated during the assault. I lost three friends, and my uncle, although I never saw him much to begin with. At age seventeen I was sent to the Academy of Magic in the city to study and train to become a mage, while my mother picked up being a trader along with tailoring, to stabilize our income. My father had signed up for the Elite Militia to take the fight directly to the Machorians, who had erected outposts all over Nuzrethar and seized control of the capital. To this day, they still hold it."

The faint clang of steel still rang true, but by this hour more spectators and fighters had started to leave the training grounds. The sun cast a warm glow across as the sky steadily turned orange.

“It wasn’t until years later they came in direct contact with my life again. My mother… she…”

Aurelia fought furiously against the tears burning behind her eyes, the lump in her throat and the burn in her chest. She bit her lip hard, almost certain to draw blood. With a shaky sigh she continued, hugging her legs to her chest.

“The city guard brought her corpse back to us, along with others who had fallen on the road. An ambush, they told us. It was a bloodbath. Spies had snuck across our borders and took the supply party my mother traveled with by surprise. They left no survivors. She was buried in the city’s courtyard, along with the heroes of war who died fighting. The only piece I have left of her is this,”

Her hand slipped under the neckline of her robes and pulled out a teardrop-shaped pendant dangling on a gold chain. It reflected the sunlight, glittering in the orange-red gemstone like fire. Aurelia kept it well-hidden under her robes, afraid of having it sustain any damage. Yet she never took it off, not even when bathing. It felt like a safe token to keep close.

“That’s beautiful,” Ellisar remarked, reaching out to touch it. Hastily she stowed it back away, as struck by lightning. He retracted his hand quietly in respect and allowed her to continue.

“My father didn’t take the loss lightly and neither did I. But we prevailed, stayed strong to continue her legacy of staying kind and generous. He left more frequently to fight against the enemy, to capture outposts. There came tales of ancient relics being found all over the world, some named but many without one. The King wants these relics, for they can provide them with a supply of magic power to defend the city.”

“But so want the Machorians, and it’s that very threat we’re fighting against now,”

“Yes. My father fought for years against them, until I joined the Militia two years back. During one of my first missions, we were tricked into a trap. Having been ordered to stay at the back of the lines, since I was inexperienced, I saw the vanguard charge right in. My father took a sword to the gut. He had no chance of surviving that blow as it went right through his armor.”

She blinked hard at the tears, hot with rage.

“I saw the man who ordered it, and while our soldiers bled and died in the dirt he sat there, at the back, grinning from his mount like an absolute madman. Being the stubborn idiot I broke formation, straight to him. That didn’t go well,”

“What happened?”

“Took a poisoned dagger in my side,” she shrugged casually, “But at that moment it just didn't matter if I lived or died, all I wanted was to have him dead. I collapsed before even reaching him. But I'll never forget that hideous grin of his," she spat, the words poison.

“When I finally woke up in a healing ward, I learned of his name. Lieutenant Methedon. He took everything from me in such a short time. My family, my people, my country. And I won’t stop until he’s dead,” she rose and stared down at him. Before she could continue, a loud horn blast sounded, signaling everyone outside the walls to head back inside. The sun was setting fast.

Aurelia sighed. She hadn’t told him everything, but knew it had to wait. The military of Denurir was a strict order, and she had already defied the rules. She didn’t want to think about what happened if she did it again, especially not with their commander on their heels.

“Best head back inside before hell breaks loose,” she smiled half-heartedly at Ellisar, who accepted her hand as she pulled him to his feet. Specks of fury still lingered, but at least her blood felt calmer now. Satisfied with her chance to blow off steam, they started the walk back inside in complete silence.


	5. Chapter 5

Early in the afternoon a few weeks later, the sun stood high above Denurir City. Summer was still at its peak and a calm breeze passed through the scalding hot streets, much appreciated by the commoners with their red faces and thin layers of clothing. Merchants sought out the shade of their stalls, the scents of fruit, spices and other aromas mingled in the air. Those scents, however, never even reached the healing ward North of the city. Many of its recovering residents sought out refreshments by the fountain in the courtyard, and Valinor only could dream of being cooled as he lifted another patient from his bed with a colleague.

Two days ago, a large skirmish involving civilians and a bandit organization through the forests of Denurir had taken many victims, both innocents and soldiers who had jumped into the fray. Now, his task was to heal as many he could, even if that meant staying at work all day. _Especially _if it meant staying. Many had fallen to the deadly poisons already and he was determined to save as many he could. Sweat had beaded on his forehead by the time they put the man down on a new bed and cut open his blood-soaked pants, to reveal a deep gash in his leg with black edges and a particular foul stench emanating from it. He quietly wiped his brow with the back of his hand, a faint flickering of dark spots appearing before his eyes. He blinked once, twice, and they disappeared. 

As the greenish-white magic from another Mender lit up above the fallen man's body, Valinor quickly pulled himself back to reality and summoned his magic. If he weren't this exhausted, using magic would be as easy as breathing air. Since it was common in Varintha as a whole, many chose to use it in their lives and could be used for just about anything. Healing, however, took such a great amount of concentration and energy from his own body that he more than once almost fainted. Yet against the advice of his colleagues, he refused to rest until his task was done. A pounding headache in his left temple begun to worm its way through as the greenish magic danced from his fingertips around the wound.

The heat in the healing ward was almost unbearable, a sweltering pressing feeling combined with the stench of blood and other unsavory things, things he didn't want to think about right now. He had to focus, had to-

“Take over for me,” he muttered to the person next to him, and as soon he felt her tap into his energy to keep the spell alive, let go of his own and stepped back from the bed. The man in front of him who had helped cut open the cloth eyed him concernedly for a moment, before returning to the task at hand. Valinor inwardly cursed at his inability to keep up the simplest healing spell. Something so small should have been easy, especially for someone of his practice in the skill. He was so lost in thought he nearly jumped when a hand came down on his shoulder.

“It’s about time you took a break,” a concerned voice came from yet another colleague and Valinor turned to him, slightly irritated. An equally tired man stood behind him, clothes rumpled and dark circles under his eyes. He ran a hand through his short-cropped hair.

“You’ve been up for almost forty-eight hours, seven of which were sleep. You can’t function like this anymore. I know what healing means to you, I know you want to save them. But right now, you need to take care of yourself. We can’t make use of your skills when you collapse on the floor,”

He stared at the man on the bed, and Valinor cast his gaze out over the ward. Countless beds filled with victims, some screaming but most silent as the grave. Bodies covered, blood still seeping through and staining the pure white sheets. Healers ran to and fro, shouting commands, the strong surge of magic hung in the air. More than once, he had seen people, family members perhaps, standing outside through the large arched windows, scanning the place until guards guided them away. So many families would be without brothers and sisters, without daughters and sons.

_Who will tell them? _he dimly wondered, _Tales of being victorious in this war only leads to more suffering. If we can’t protect our borders and forests, how are we able to deflect a full assault? _

He sighed heavily, "I guess you're right. Take over my tasks for today,"

“I’ll see to it. The Headmistress is already aware of your situation and has pardoned you today. Go home, get some rest,” the man replied before stepping away from him to another patient. Valinor turned away as well, making his way to the front door and out into one of the long, bright hallways. Yet even here he couldn't find peace as the same scenarios played out again. Word had reached them the King sent out his best trackers and spies to rut the last pockets of resistance out of their forests, but for every man they killed, two came back. Soon gossip had erupted under the workers that Machorians were once again involved, but he refused to believe it once he had seen them himself.

In one of the washrooms, he shed his bloodied apron, changed his blouse for a much more comfortable tunic and thoroughly washed his hands before finally heading outside. The heat of the afternoon sun hit him like a sledgehammer, a heatwave at full force slamming into him and he held up a hand to shield his tired eyes. He wouldn't ride back to Malvor; since he settled in the city he had made good use of his own home, although it did feel empty without his other half.

He began the walk home, passing through the Market District bustling with life and more than once had to push his way through the turbulent crowd. He tried to drown out the sounds of the merchants shouting their wares across the streets, the loud chatter of the townsfolk, the melodic bells of the Citadel chiming yet another hour. Neither of this worked and he became plagued by increasing headaches by the time he finally got home, and all but crashed in a chair. With a sigh, he put his head in his hands and hoped the pain would fade, but instead saw a small red droplet splash on the wooden floor in between his feet.

He quickly wiped at his nose with the back of his hand. Magical exertion wasn’t uncommon, especially not after he had pushed his limits. He also knew this would mean he wouldn’t be able to heal at his fullest for at least a few days, much to his dismay. So many would still need his help. After collecting his thoughts again, he closed every curtain in his home, made sure to lock the door, then finally crawled into bed and drifted off almost immediately.

Valinor awoke with a start when the bells chimed eleven times the next morning. He rolled over lazily to reach out… and his arm fell on an empty, cold spot. It almost felt like routine; since Adellya had passed, he still expected someone to be there beside him. Yet he always awoke to emptiness, and perhaps, loneliness every day. He stared contemplatively at his hand on the sheets, wondering if his father would be right to push for another marriage and make his numbness go away. It felt wrong to him, to love another woman even after years of being alone, and the wedding ring on his hand reminded him of that fact. Shaking the thoughts from his head, he threw aside the covers and walked to the washroom.

Barely fifteen minutes he re-emerged, having properly washed off any remains of his sleep and tiredness under a scalding hot shower. He quickly dressed, then opened up every curtain in his home to let in fresh sunlight. When the beams hit the table, his eye caught a letter he’d completely missed the day before. Upon closer inspection, it held a wax seal with an all-too-familiar symbol. He thumbed the seal and read the neatly-written note, printed in flowing black script.

_Valinor,_

_I am to inform you Lady Zalyna Silverstone has recently arrived in Denurir. She is expected to join me here in Malvor before we make our amends to the capital. I would ask of you to join us as soon as you can; she will be given accommodation in the Palace, but you are the one who should show her around the city. Perhaps you even might get to know her better before the betrothal. _

_I expect to meet you in two days at the Palace gates, at noon._

_-Lord Irazion Malvorian_

The date at the top of the letter suggested it had been sent two days ago, and he groaned softly in annoyance as he realized the little time he had left for himself today. He then rolled the paper back up and stashed it away in another growing stack of letters, reports, and intelligence before back to the bedroom. He quietly redressed in formal wear, which consisted of a blouse, a black velvet tunic embroidered in silver and matching black pants. _The sort of clothing I’d rather not wear_, he thought grimly as he tied a sash around his waist and shrugged on a dark purple long coat, the color so rich it almost seemed black. Lastly, he pulled on some leather boots, and finally headed out.

As promised, he arrived early that afternoon at the grand gates of the Royal Palace. He hadn't been here on many occasions, save for a few meetings in which his father and heir should be present, and never really had the time to take in his surroundings. As he crossed the silvery stone bridge to the gate, wide enough for at least two carriages side by side, he paused for a moment and stared up. Glittering spires of gold and white stone rose to the sky even from this distance, towers stood and flags rippled gently in the light breeze. Several banners, embroidered with the sigil of the city, hung from the gate walls itself. He passed two guards who leaned to the gate with visible disinterest and boredom, and stepped onto the plaza where a grand fountain clattered.

Valinor passed several royally-dressed nobles on his way to the wide-open front doors, past rows of trees and smaller patches of grass, where some lounged on a bench or walked along with the trees until he reached the steps leading up to the main entrance. By the time he reached the top, the sight of his father came into view, crisply dressed in House Malvor's colors and the sigil pinned to the left breast. His piercing eyes locked on him the moment Valinor stood beside him.

“You look tired, son,” he began with a rather condescending expression, his icy eyes scanning him thoroughly.

“Good afternoon to you too, Father,” Valinor replied dryly and stood beside him, his back facing the fountain on the plaza further below. “We’ve had our hands full with the victims of the skirmishes two days ago. I’d rather try to save more people than-“

"Do not forget the choices I made will bring House Malvor back from its potential downfall," his father said sharply, eyeing the silver ring on his son's hand. "And take that off. Lord Silverstone will never see his daughter married to a man who wears a wedding ring already. Adellya's been dead for five years now, it’s high time you moved on.”

"Funny," Valinor scowled as he took off the silver band, twisting it between his long fingers before dropping it in one of the pockets of the coat. "Mother said the same thing. At least she wasn't as pressing as you are with your political games,”

Irazion didn’t respond, and Valinor knew exactly why. House Malvor had once been known for holding several important settlements in and around Denurir City, going as far from having personal rooms in the Palace to controlling the smaller villages nearby; taxes would go directly to Malvor, instead of the King’s Advisors of Coin. But in recent years, the once-glorious house had been reduced to having a seat in the High Council and the smallest settlements they could afford, a great shame in the eyes of the Lord. Valinor recalled the events which led them to near-ruin; ever since his wife had fallen ill, he had spent almost every expense they had on finding a cure for the unnamed, seemingly untreatable disease. He often found his father in his study, but more often than not sent him away with the maids to work on a solution. At first, he hadn’t bothered, but when his father grew more and more distant from both him and Adellya and even picked up drinking, Valinor had known the rift had become irreparable. 

Moreover, he also hadn’t told him another reason he picked up the arts of healing instead of the sword; to find a way to cure his mother. But he found none. He knew his father kept his wife under constant protection and isolation to try and dull her pain, but the only thing Valinor saw was the crumbling of the once-joyous woman to only a former shell of herself. The last time he saw her, weeks back, she had been in the gardens, the only place where she could truly rest for a bit, and he dimly wondered if his father had also forbidden her to visit that place now.

Shaking his head clear of the thoughts, he turned his attention back to his father. "Lady Silverstone should be waiting inside if I am right?"

"Correct. We shouldn't keep her from seeing you," he replied briskly and stepped inside the main corridor, Valinor following close beside him. Like the exterior, the interior of the Palace so far was the same; marble floors, white walls lined with golden details, chandeliers from the high arched ceiling. High arched windows let in light, banners, and tapestries in dark green velvet hung from the walls, embroidered with gold. Guards stood at posts every so often. None seemed interested in yet another pair of visitors, and soon Valinor climbed a velvet-draped staircase to one of the upper levels. He’d been here long enough to at least know the way to the inner courtyard and the royal gardens behind the Palace, the kitchens and the war room, but it was so terrifying grand here, he’d still get lost every so often.

At the top, the hall split in two and he took a right turn, climbing further until another corridor came into sight. Multiple doors led to more corridors and halls, and he followed his father in silence, save for the soft _thump_ of footsteps on the marble. When they finally arrived at a smaller hall, he exhaled in relief, although he had no idea in the slightest how far inside the Palace they were by now. His father pushed open a light-shaded wooden door, inlaid with gold patterns, and Valinor swiftly followed until the considerable room stretched before them.

The interior was mostly the same as the other room, save for a large cushioned sofa in the middle of the carpet and large, white curtains blowing slightly in the afternoon breeze through half-opened windows. Two women stood in front of it, their backs to him as Valinor entered the room and he studied them. The first thing coming to mind was how alike they seemed, and then another thought interrupted his first; they were handmaidens. From the short distance, their voices were too low to be understood and all he heard were hushed, incomprehensible tones. His father coughed lightly.

“Lady Silverstone, I’d like to introduce you to my son; Valinor,”

As one, the maids stepped aside to reveal a young woman on the sofa with dark waves and a pale, silvery figure-fitting dress. As she stood, her eyes fixated on him, and Valinor felt a faint sting of uncertainty and perhaps even intimidation. He quickly recovered, however, and strode over to her to take one of her outstretched hands in his, then bowed down to kiss it lightly.

“My Lady, it’s a pleasure to meet you,” he said while trying to keep his voice neutral. After all, he wouldn’t want to give her any ideas yet.

“My Lord, the pleasure is all mine,” she replied smoothly with a court bow. “Zalyna Silverstone, of House Silverstone,”

Up close, he found her remarkable, with deep brown eyes filled with gold specks when the light just hit right, and strong eyebrows with long, curling lashes. She smiled shyly, a pink blush dusted on her pale cheeks, and there was a faint sparkle in her eyes… yet he found her somewhat lacking in stature at first sight. She didn't hold the certain air of a trained fighter like Aurelia, and he vaguely wondered if she were just another pawn in a political game like him. Shaking the thoughts from his head about his friend, he turned his attention back.

“Have you enjoyed our city so far, my Lady?” he let go of her hand.

“I’ve spent most of my time in the gilded carriage, but from what I have seen the city seems striking. But, I’d be honored if you could show me around the rest of the cityscape today,” she said flawlessly, the smile still plastered on her face. From both sides, the handmaidens watched them intently, their hands neatly folded before their stomach.

“I’d be honored,” he replied lightly as he stepped aside to let her pass, followed closely on her heels by the maids, their heels clicking on the floor in fast, vigorous steps. His tiredness hadn’t faded entirely yet, but whatever his father asked, he had to comply for the sake of not starting another fight. With a heavy inwards sigh, he followed everyone out of the room and began the climb back down the stairs.


End file.
